


i'll take you over if you let me

by leighbot



Category: One Direction (Band), Zayn Malik (Musician)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Racing, Chance Meetings, Explicit Sexual Content, Kid Fic, M/M, One Night Stands
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-15
Updated: 2016-11-15
Packaged: 2018-08-22 08:29:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8279501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leighbot/pseuds/leighbot
Summary: The lad- Harry thinks his name is Zayn or maybe Andrew, the club was really, very loud- glances up at Harry through curtain-thick black lashes, a hint of liner smudge around his eyes. His lips look sticky with gloss and Harry flicks his tongue against his own bottom lip, tasting the artificial strawberry flavor transferred when they had been snogging earlier. Andrew- or was it Colin?- smirks, his eyes clearly tracking the movement. He tilts his head further back, his eyes wide and Bambi like. Or, a chance meeting causes a misunderstanding that just might stop everything before it even starts.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [soyane](https://archiveofourown.org/users/soyane/gifts).



> Disclaimer of the disclaim-iest: I know 0% about racing, especially the illegal street variety. That being said, I did as much research as I could and tried to make the parts about racing sound like they're legit. This prompt was lovely and I tried to do it justice.
> 
> Thank you, so much, to Nicki for running a fantastic exchange and allowing me to be a part of it.
> 
> Title from Blink-182.
> 
> Also inspired by [this shit](http://i.imgur.com/RmfjwVB.png) and [this shit](http://i.imgur.com/4ZlP7nf.jpg). Enjoy!

There’s an underground club, the smell of piss and alcohol strong in the air. It’s the kind of club kids sneak into and adults avoid, the floor sticky with any combination of liquids and the air thick with humidity. More people are half-naked than fully-clothed, and Harry is in the middle of it all with his hands running down the bare back of a fit lad around his age. He isn’t sure of the boy’s name but he is sure he doesn’t care. Tonight is one he’ll never forget and forever deny.

The lad- Harry _thinks_ his name is Zayn or maybe Andrew, the club was really, very loud- glances up at Harry through curtain-thick black lashes, a hint of liner smudged around his eyes. His lips look sticky shiny with gloss and Harry flicks his tongue out against his own bottom lip to taste the artificial berry flavor that had transferred when they’d been snogging earlier. Andrew- _or was it Colin?_ \- smirks, his eyes clearly tracking the movement of Harry’s pink tongue. He tilts his head further back, his eyes wide and Bambi like.

“Wanna get out of here?” the lad asks in his thick accent, the flash of his own tongue behind his teeth a shocking raspberry red. His eyes crinkle when Harry grins in response, belying his awareness that he’s just pulled by using a clichéd line. “I’ve got a hotel room,” he continues, his words running together.

“You’re not from around here?” Harry asks- as if he has any idea which part of London he’s currently in. He gets a shake of the head in response, the lad blinking slow as he rolls his hips against Harry’s own.

Harry had originally come down to the city for a meeting with his ex-girlfriend and their lawyers in Kensington. After two hours of mostly silence, only those getting paid to be there having anything to say, the meeting had ended and Harry had started drinking as soon as he found the closest off-licence.

Like the true responsible adult and father that he is, he had then proceeded to sneak sips of his whiskey as he walked around aimlessly, keeping an eye on his phone’s location to make sure he wasn’t somehow already in Wales. Instead, as the sky began growing dark, he had somehow stumbled his way upon an illegal street race. It’s a chain of events he wouldn’t believe if he had been told them by anyone else. Caught up in the atmosphere and drunk off of more than just self-pity, he had started rooting for the lad on the red bike for no reason other than the delicious way his black skinnies had clung to his thighs and bony legs around the thick seat of the bike.

Though it had been hard to tell how the race was going, as Harry didn’t understand the rules or have a great visual, the celebration afterwards had revealed that his lad had won. As if he had somehow controlled the outcome, Harry had joined the revels with enthusiasm and puffed-up pride. His charm with the other partiers and lack of self-restraint when dancing had caught the winner’s attention and his determined flirting had even won him a kiss. And then another.

Somehow, they had ended up pressed together in this club, no secrets about where they both felt the night was headed. Colin- no, maybe it  _was_ Zayn- stretches his arms out to wrap around Harry’s neck, tugging him down into another slick kiss. Harry lets himself fall into it, hands on Zayn’s bare waist. He’s shaped like an hourglass, narrowest right before the obscene cut of his hipbones. Zayn’s t-shirt is around Harry’s neck like a scarf. His bare torso is shiny where his sweat highlights the varying blacks and reds of his tattoos. Harry’s already tasted the ink at the top of his shoulder, a snake design curling around itself, but he has definite plans to taste the words scratched into his skin just above the elastic of his pants peeking over his denim trousers. He needs to catalogue the differences, sample the sweat all along his skin and find his favorite place to bite, lick and leave behind a reminder that Harry was there. Harry had this lad in his hands.

“Let’s go,” Harry says when he pulls back from the kiss, Zayn’s lips parted and slick in the strobe lights in the club. Zayn blinks up at him slowly once, and then once again even slower, his lashes casting shadows along his cheeks and the lighting in the club making his eyes look glassier than they could possibly be from drink alone. “Let’s go _now_ ,” Harry amends with a grin, sliding his hands along the definition of Zayn’s abs before grabbing for his hand and threading their fingers together.

He lets Zayn lead them outside, the chilly night air a blessing after the hot weight of too many bodies pressing against them inside. Harry lets Zayn’s hand slip from his. Zayn slides his own shirt from around Harry’s neck as Harry does up the buttons of the respectable looking dress shirt he’d worn to make a statement in his earlier meeting. It hadn’t mattered, he thought bitterly to himself, because Elise was always going to be the selfish girl he knew when they were eighteen. That fact hasn’t changed, even though she’s now married and expecting a new baby. There’d never be a place in her life for anyone that didn’t fit into her normal, nuclear family and Harry just-

Well, Harry would just have to accept that. He’s been surviving and even flourishing as he is for this long. He doesn’t need anyone- least of all Elise.

He glances up to catch Zayn shrugging his own t-shirt back over his head, the hem hitting past the nonexistent curve of his arse. Harry is caught by Zayn in his staring, a fact he isn’t ashamed of, and he pushes all thoughts of Elise and unhappiness and even consequences from his mind as he crowds back into Zayn’s space and claims his mouth again for a long, long moment.

“We gonna freeze to death in an alley or can we at least go to my room?” Zayn laughs, his words surprisingly quiet. In the club, they had been shouting to be heard and it had been difficult to gauge some of their words. His voice now, though, is soft and gentle-like, his accent thick around the words in a way that makes Harry want to shuck his kit off now and get on with it in the very alley they’re standing in. “C’mon,” Zayn encourages, not waiting for a response before he’s pulling Harry along the street and around a couple of street corners. They jog down the steps to the Tube in pace. Zayn swipes his Oyster card like a pro but Harry fumbles his one-day pass a couple of times, getting an error message repeatedly.

“It should still work,” he frowns, trying to read the small print and do mental math all at once. He should be able to take it until the subway stops. That’s what the attendant had told him earlier, at least..

“Just jump, c’mon. No one’s here.”

That’s not entirely true. There is an attendant in the booth but she just glances at them and shrugs, seeming to be unconcerned. Harry looks around and tries his card one more time at another terminal with no luck again. Glancing across the turnstile at Zayn, who looks flushed from kisses and exasperated from impatience in the best ways, Harry makes a decision and gets his hands on the machines either side of his hips, pushing up with his arms and kicking his legs over.

Zayn whoops and pumps his fist into the air, turning and jogging down the station hall and another flight of stairs. Harry barely pays attention to anything else as he follows. There’s a train coming, they can hear it on the track, and he lets Zayn curl against his back as they wait. Zayn’s arms circle around his waist, one hand slipping down for a cheeky grope before tucking under the hem of Harry’s dress shirt to pat at the bit of pudge Harry thinks he’ll never lose.

He can feel Zayn’s forehead pressed to the nape of his neck before he feels Zayn’s nose and then his lips drag against the same spot, pressing a quick kiss to the skin above his shirt collar just as the train pulls up. They climb in, the car relatively full for the time of night. It’s not even a weekend, just a regular Tuesday in London, and the other commuters range from people who could have been with them at the club to firemen or paramedics just getting off of twenty-four hour shifts at work. Zayn stays close, regardless.

“I can reach it,” Zayn gripes when Harry tugs him in front of his chest so he’s closer to the center pole for balance. “Could probably take the whole line without swaying once.”

“A bit too much drink for that, me,” Harry says, both hands now gripping the bar directly above his head. He knows it makes his biceps stretch the arms of his in what he assumes is an impressive way, but Zayn doesn’t appear to notice. His expression turns to one of concern instead.

“You up for this, mate? Don’t want you to do anything you’ll regret in the morning.”

It takes Harry a moment to process his words, running them through his head again and again. Finally, it hits. “Oh,” he says, nearly losing his footing as the subway comes to a stop. He rights himself. “No, I’m not like- well, I am drunk but I know what I’m doing. Not going to regret this. Not a virgin, either. In case you wondered.”

“I hadn’t, really,” Zayn says, his face reflecting him relaxing, though he still appears to be watching Harry carefully.

Harry lets the movement of the train taking off again sway his body closer, using the small height advantage he has to look down at Zayn. Even under the harsh, flickering yellow lights of the grungy subway car, he’s possibly the prettiest lad Harry has ever seen. The liner and mostly-kissed off gloss make him look ethereal, a word Harry is impressed he still knows at his level of inebriation. “Hi,” he says, laughing at himself even as he asks, “How do you spell ‘ethereal’?”

“Why?” Zayn asks after spelling it twice so Harry can repeat after him.

“No reason,” Harry says, watching a smile appear on Zayn’s lips. It’s reluctant but it’s there and Harry stays pressed up into his space for the rest of their ride until they’re at Zayn’s stop. Harry links their hands again and follows him out of the station, growling under his breath at his visitor card as it sucks through the machine without incident this time.

“You care if I smoke? I can go without if you want,” Zayn asks as they head up to street level.

“S’okay,” Harry says. “I don’t smoke but I don’t mind.”

Neither of them seems to be in any rush to get to the hotel, walking comfortably in step with their hands linked between them. Zayn uses his free hand for his cigarette, taking care to blow out away from Harry even if he’s in the middle of a sentence. The scent lingers on his t-shirt even after he stubs out the butt and pockets it for lack of a rubbish bin around. Harry doesn’t mind, though. He lets go of Zayn’s hand only to sling his arm around his broad shoulders, pulling him close. Zayn’s arm winds behind Harry’s back, gripping his opposite hip softly and teasing his fingertips under the waistband of Harry’s dress trousers.

They’re cutting through a small park when Harry drags his feet to a stop and looks around suddenly. It’s a community garden plot of some sorts in the middle of the city, with large and unruly trees growing in a perimeter around the square. There’s a small water fountain in one corner and a sparse child’s playground in the other. The middle section is set up for small herbs and vegetables.

“You alright?” Zayn asks, his hold tightening in concern.

Harry takes a deep breath. “Yeah,” he says, after a pause. “I just… I haven’t really seen grass in London yet. Feels unnatural.”

Zayn laughs, one hand to his mouth to keep the sound quiet in the still night. “There’s, like, big parks and stuff,” he says after a second. “Hyde Park is just up the way a bit.”

Harry shrugs and resumes walking, leading them through the small park. “I’m used to the country. Our front garden is about three times the size of this and our closest neighbor is a ways away. It’s- busier here.”

“That sounds nice. The quiet,” Zayn says. Harry isn’t sure how much Zayn means it, is used to people preferring the bustle of the city over the humdrum of the country, but they’re walking in through the automatic doors of Zayn’s hotel before he can ask which setting Zayn would rather live in.

The hotel isn’t anything overly fancy, Harry notices as they take the elevator up. If anything, it’s on par with the room he has rented out in his name on the other side of town with his untouched duffel bag still sat on the equally undisturbed bed. He doesn’t think about that, doesn’t think about the money he’s wasted coming down for a useless meeting. He forces himself to focus on the way Zayn smells like sweat and cologne, instead. It’s a soothing combination, a reminder of the good time they’ve had so far and a hint at what’s to come.

Zayn lets them into his room after tugging the key card from the back pocket of his jeans in a feat remarkable to Harry as if it were a miracle. He hadn’t thought there was room enough in Zayn’s trousers for anything other than him, and barely so at that. “Let me get you a water,” Zayn says when they enter, shoving the card into the socket to power the lights. He steps around a neatly half-packed suitcase to duck into the mini fridge and pull out two bottles. He tosses one to Harry, who catches it about as well as a blind meerkat would. Zayn doesn’t mention it.

He drinks deeply, suddenly aware of his thirst. As he twists the cap back on, his phone buzzes in his pocket. He slips it out with an apology to Zayn, frowning when he sees his mum’s face on the caller ID. “You mind if I-?” he asks but Zayn is already waving him off.

“Toilet’s right behind you.”

Harry smiles at him, already bringing the phone to his ear. “Hey.”

“Hi, love, you alright?”

“I’m good, how’re you?” He closes the door behind him, dropping his voice to avoid the echo in the room. “How’s Izz?”

“Everyone’s okay, baby. All a bit sleepy now. I was just calling to see how it went today. How you were doing.”

“I’m good, mum. I’ll tell you about it tomorrow.”

“Okay, H. You sound good so I’m relieved. Here, though. Someone wants to talk to you before bedtime.”

There is the dull thud of the hands on the phone as it’s shuffled between persons before Harry hears a little voice. “Hi, daddy!”

“Hi, baby. Are you having fun with Grandma Anne?”

“Yeah, but I miss you.”

It’s tough to hear her say that, especially when he knows she’s confused. He’s never been away from her for any amount of time. Even if he’s missed bedtime while his mum watched her, Harry was always there in the morning. Izzy’s never had to deal with him being gone for three full nights and days. Harry knows he coddles his daughter but he doesn’t care. He takes a long breath and closes his eyes, focusing on the water he’s just had and pretending he’s more sober than he really is.

“I’ll be home the day after tomorrow,” he says, his voice low. “I know it sounds like a long time but it’ll go so fast, I promise. I love you. Get some sleep, babe, okay?”

“Okay, daddy. Grandma wants to talk to you. Love you. Bye.”

“Love you, bye,” he echoes before his mum is back on the line.

“Don’t fret about it, love,” she says, her voice gentle. “Us girls are having a great time and Auntie Gems is coming by tomorrow for breakfast and some early afternoon shopping. We’re doing alright.”

“I know you are. I just feel guilty.”

“Your father used to feel the same when we went away for the weekend. Everyone is going to be just fine. We’re gonna go have us a bit of a cuddle before bedtime, just to be sure.”

“Sounds good,” Harry says, smiling. “Give her an extra one from me, yeah?”

“Of course, love. Okay, be good. Love you, Harry. See you in two days.”

“See you, mum,” he says, ignoring the way he misses them both. “Love you, bye.”

He slips his phone back into his pocket, running his hands through his hair and pushing it away from his face. He slips the tie from around his wrist and gathers his curls back with practiced ease. He takes another deep breath before washing his hands and heading back out into the bedroom.

Zayn is standing awkwardly next to the bed in the dark, fiddling with something in his hands. Harry steps out of the doorway to the toilet, leaving the light behind him. He can see Zayn is holding his belt. He can also see the expression on Zayn’s face, his mouth pinched and brows furrowed.

“You okay?” Harry asks, his stomach flipping like he’s missed a step walking down the stairs. He doesn’t really know this man but something about seeing him look upset makes Harry feel anxious, like he’s let him down.

Though, to be fair, it could also be the drink that’s still clouding the edges of his awareness.

“I don’t fuck married guys,” Zayn says.

Harry does a double-take, looking over his shoulder as if there may be someone else in the room that Zayn is addressing. “I don’t either?” he says, confused enough that his words tilt up at the end like a question.

Zayn glances at him then, his eyes narrowed. “Don’t try to joke.”

“I’m not joking,” Harry insists. Suddenly, he feels like an idiot as he understands what Zayn had meant. “Oh, shit. No, I’m not married, either.”

“I heard you in there. I didn’t try to but- s’a small room. I heard you saying ‘I love you’ to someone.”

“I get why you think what you’re… thinking,” Harry says, hesitating. He feels a bit defensive though he rationally knows why Zayn assumed what he did. “Firstly, I was speaking to my mum. Secondly, I was speaking to my kid.” Zayn looks over at him finally, eye contact strong as his grow wide in surprise and acknowledgment. “Yeah, I have a kid.”

Zayn’s shoulders drop from where they had been hunched up near his ears, his jaw going slack. “What?”

“A little girl. She’s six and I’m raising her alone. I’ve never,” Harry’s voice breaks a bit and he clears his throat before continuing. “I’ve never been away from her this long before but I had a meeting in town with her mother- my ex, we’re not together- and I won’t be there to tuck her in. So she called to talk to me.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

They stand in silence for a long moment, the air awkward now. Harry wishes he could rewind to twenty minutes ago, when the taste of Zayn’s mouth was on the tip of his tongue and the lad’s waist was in the tight grip of his hands. The shift in the atmosphere is tangible and Harry feels as if he just wants to leave and forget the entire night.

“I think I’m going to head out, actually,” he says, taking a step backward. “I’ve kind of ruined the evening.”

Zayn takes a step closer at those words. “No, wait, I’m sorry. I- I shouldn’t have listened in. Please. Stay.”

Harry pauses, biting his bottom lip. Zayn’s eyes are wide and his mouth pulled tight in a pout, looking as if he would honestly want Harry to stay. The light from the bathroom does nothing to illuminate his face but the shadows play off of the angles of his cheeks.  _Ethereal_ , Harry thinks again.

“C’mere,” Zayn encourages, discarding his belt and taking another step forward. Harry finds himself following suit automatically, taking several choppy, aborted strides until he’s close enough to step into the open circle of Zayn’s arms. “Just- c’mere,” Zayn repeats, tilting his chin up and closing his eyes.

Harry doesn’t hesitate; he cups Zayn’s jaw with his fingers and palm, holding him in place before leaning in to close the distance between their mouths. His lips are chapped and the gloss Zayn had been wearing is completely gone, the taste a ghost of a memory. Harry’s mouth parts on a sigh and Zayn takes the initiative to lick out, the kiss turning wet. Neither of them feels the need to rush, it seems, because it stays soft and slow even as Harry learns to recognise Zayn’s taste under the fading, stale memory of his cigarette.

Pulling away to take in a breath, Harry opens his eyes and takes in Zayn’s appearance. The open door from the toilet still offers little light for their use, even though their shifting during the kiss has brought them closer to the corner. Zayn’s eyes look impossibly dark in the dimness, his face too thin from the shadows cast by his cheekbones. Harry thumbs at all the places the light doesn’t hit, both hands cupping Zayn’s cheeks now and bringing their mouths together again. It’s almost like Zayn’s a drug.

The entourage that had followed Zayn and the other racers into the club had offered them some pills but he had declined and Zayn had followed his lead. Harry doesn’t know if that would have made his desire more or less obvious because he knows he’s already being read like an open book every time he pulls back to breathe and opens his eyes to find Zayn already watching him. He’s got a natural deer in the headlights look about him, Harry has noticed, a soft Bambi effect that makes Harry want to act on his baser urges. Both his protector and hunter instincts are heightened, unsure if he’d rather curl Zayn up to his chest and protect him from harm or stalk him like a prey until they’re both sated.

Turning the tables on his thoughts and taking advantage of his distractions, Zayn doesn’t wait for Harry to make up his mind. He surges up for another kiss even as he fumbles briefly with Harry’s belt before his fingers fall into place on the buckle. He pulls it apart and undoes Harry’s trousers, pushing them down together until they catch on his thighs. Harry tries to pull back but Zayn pushes forward, one hand coming up to press flat against the back of Harry’s neck in a possessive hold. His other hand works at the trousers still, tugging them down one leg at a time, back and forth, until they pass the thicker part of Harry’s thighs and fall to the floor with a thud.

“Sit down, yeah?” Zayn says, voice deeper and quieter than before. Harry does as asked, sitting on the edge of the bed and unbuttoning his dress shirt- the four buttons he had bothered doing up after the club- while Zayn shucks off his own kit like he’s being timed. He crowds Harry on the bed, his knees dangerously close to the edge until Harry scoots back and Zayn follows.

Their mouths meet again and again in a series of kisses that don’t seem to end. By this point, Zayn’s mouth tastes more like Harry than anything else, though there’s still an underlying hint of something like the shots they’d done together at least an hour ago and a little like the staleness that gathers while you sleep. It’s unique and all Zayn, a mix that Harry tries to file away for later when he’s back home in Cheltenham with nothing but his hand to get him off.

Hey, he’s a single father; he doesn’t get much time to go out on the pull. The memories of this night, the right here and the right now, may just be the only things he has to think about for a while.

Even better than the way Zayn tastes, though, is the way he feels pressed along Harry’s chest while his arse rests prim in Harry’s lap. He’s small but far from frail in Harry’s hold, solid muscle packed tight to his bones. He’s far more defined than Harry, who has let himself get a little softer than he had when he was younger. Zayn doesn’t seem to mind, his own hands trailing along the pudge on Harry’s hips and stomach with reverent admiration, ducking his head down to kiss and lick at Harry’s clavicle when Harry pulls back for a breath of air.

“I don’t- didn’t plan for this,” Harry admits after a second. “I don’t have a condom.”

“I do,” Zayn assures him, pulling reluctantly back from Harry’s sternum. “We don’t have to do anything you don’t want, though. I could just blow you, if you like.”

“I definitely like,” Harry says, grinning and leading Zayn closer and into another kiss. “My turn first, though,” he says against Zayn’s mouth before using his slight size advantage and the element of surprise to turn them so Zayn is on his back and Harry is resting heavily against his chest. “Don’t move,” Harry teases, trailing a line of kisses down Zayn’s chest and belly, nosing at the thick trail of hair leading to the black pants clinging tight to his waist but loosely around his thighs.

Zayn’s thighs catch Harry’s attention. He thumbs at the place where the hem of his pants meet his skin, teasing a bit before slipping his hands under to push them up and get his mouth on the previously unrevealed skin. He kisses and licks his way from one thigh to the other, even nipping once or twice. Zayn laughs and sighs at the attention, his hands finding their way to Harry’s hair. He carefully pulls out the tie and strokes through Harry’s curls, his motions almost absent-minded save for the way he makes a fist when Harry gives an experimental sharper nip. Zayn curses under his breath above him and tugs at his handful, clearly trying to encourage Harry’s mouth higher.

Harry lets himself be led, chancing a quick look up to find Zayn watching him with dark, hooded eyes and a lazy smirk. He looks in his element, Harry notes, almost too comfortable. Harry feels like it’s a challenge. When he breaks eye contact, he looks back down. Zayn’s clearly hard in his pants, no subtlety there. The black fabric clings to his cock so obscenely, leaving nothing to the imagination, and a small dark spot is already forming. The sight of it makes Harry’s mouth water. He pushes himself up with his forearms, shifting higher with the continued pull of Zayn’s fist until he can busy himself with mouthing along the line of words inked low on Zayn’s V-line as he uses his fingers to coax down the elastic of Zayn’s pants until his cock is free.

He’s cut, something Harry doesn’t have as much experience with, and shiny on the tip. Harry doesn’t leave the tattoo until even the ellipses have been tasted, another sharp bite at the last one making Zayn hiss and clench his fist reflexively. Harry grunts at the tug but pulls against it at the same time, finally licking at the drippy head of Zayn’s cock before getting a hand around him to help guide him into his mouth.

Without hesitating, Harry falls into an almost steady rhythm. They’ve been mostly gentle with each other so far, their kisses slow and thorough and their touches always reverent, so Harry doesn’t let this move too fast. He doesn’t want to force this night to be something it isn’t, knows that calling it a hookup would feel like a lie though it’s obstinately the truth. He doesn’t want this to be the only time he gets a taste of Zayn, though, but he takes his time and catalogues every detail in case he doesn’t experience it again.

Harry keeps himself steady as he focuses on interpreting Zayn’s soft moans and cries correctly, wanting to make him feel good- great, the best. His jaw is sore before long but it’s an acceptable kind of ache, one he can put up with as long as it takes. His reward for it comes every so often, when Zayn’s cock blurts a drop of precome against the back of Harry’s tongue. He moans every time and gets a bit sloppier, his hand and chin wet with spit. He’s eager to taste it again, taste more.

“Fuck, you really like this,” Zayn says, his voice in a whisper as he smooths his palms through Harry’s hair.

Harry doesn’t want to pull off to respond, doesn’t think it really needs one, so he just doubles down and slips another inch farther, drooling around Zayn’s cock when he gets too close to the back of Harry’s throat. He’s never taken someone so far before and he doesn’t think he could push further without choking, but the added spit makes it even messier and Zayn curses, kicking a leg out and moving one hand to Harry’s shoulder to dig into the fleshy muscle there. Harry can hear the way he’s slurping, an obscene sound combining with Zayn’s moans and the whispers of them shifting against the sheets in the otherwise quiet room.

Finally and somehow also too soon, Zayn’s noises start changing. His grunts and breathy gasps shift into longer, drawn out guttural sounds like he can’t control how they come out. “Babe, oh, babe,” he says, the hand on Harry’s shoulder pushing him away while the other tightens in his curls to keep him close as if he isn’t able to decide which he wants more. Zayn’s been considerate the whole time, his hips mostly still against the mattress, but he starts rolling them now. He pushes into Harry’s mouth with small thrusts, pulling back only slightly before fucking back in. He teases deeper into Harry’s mouth, tip just glossing against the soft back of Harry’s throat. Harry takes it all, relaxes as best as he can and lets his spit-slick hand drop to Zayn’s balls, palming them and keeping up his rhythm, eager to taste Zayn’s release. Harry can hear Zayn’s loud inhale right before he pushes his hips into Harry’s mouth one last time, holding himself up off the sheets as his cock dribbles every last bit of come down Harry’s throat.

“Fucking, shit,” Zayn says, words slow as he sinks back down to the mattress.

Harry doesn’t look up at him just yet. He focuses on getting everything Zayn has to offer, licking and sucking around the head of his cock repeatedly before finally pulling back. He swallows against the taste as he wipes his mouth off with the back of his hand. He gets a good look at Zayn now, noticing the fresh sheen of sweat on his torso, his abs in stark relief as if he’d given himself a workout.

Zayn looks down at him, grinning. “You’re amazing.”

Harry shrugs and grins back, feeling pretty damn proud of himself. He watches Zayn’s eyes trail down his chest before they seem to focus in on the bulge in his pants. Harry’s hand traces the same line Zayn’s gaze had just followed, slipping under the waistband and giving himself a few strokes. He thumbs at his foreskin where it’s pulling back, just teasing for the sensation of it, and Zayn licks his lips and meets his eyes again, blinking slowly.

“Come up here,” Zayn says, lifting a hand and patting his chest so there can be no misinterpretation. “I wanna taste you.”

The only proof that Harry hasn’t blacked out upon hearing those words is the fact that he can see the way Zayn hollows his cheeks as he swallows once, eyes heavy lidded as his tongue flicks out against his bottom lip in a nervous tic. Harry stays still for a long moment, still catching his breath, before Zayn pats his sternum again, raising an eyebrow.

That gets Harry moving. He crawls up the bed while simultaneously trying to shuck off his pants. He makes it most of the way before overbalancing, falling forward and catching himself with flat palms against the wall. Zayn laughs- at him or with him, Harry isn’t sure- and gets his hands on Harry’s waist to steady him before helping to push them the rest of the way off of his calves. Harry settles into position gingerly, knees near Zayn’s ears before he spreads his thighs farther and uses a hand to guide himself. He keeps his foreskin back with the tight ring of his fingers, the head of his cock revealed and wet with thick precome.

Zayn’s mouth opens willingly, eyes never leaving Harry’s as he gets his hands on Harry’s arse and encourages him to push deeper inside. Harry groans when he feels Zayn’s throat around the head of his cock, pulling back until just the tip is past the line of Zayn’s lips before pressing back in deep. He sets a slow rhythm, blinking furiously as he hangs his head down and watches Zayn watching him.

Without meaning to, he breaks their staring contest. Zayn teases a finger along Harry’s hole, not pressing inside yet but giving off the impression that he could and will, and Harry flings his head back in a shout as he thrusts sharply one, two, three times before regaining control. Zayn gags briefly but doesn’t let Harry pull out, humming instead around his mouthful as he continues teasing at the tight furl of Harry’s hole.

“Fuck, baby,” Harry says. “Feels so good. So good.”

Zayn hums in answer, the vibrations sending a shock through Harry’s system but he keeps his rhythm steady, thrusting in slow and deep.

He’s already worked up, from the club and definitely from blowing Zayn first, so it takes an embarrassingly short time before Harry is gritting his teeth and tightening his abs, pulling out. Zayn pouts and tries to lead him back inside but Harry can’t, just keeps stroking himself off until he grimaces with the pleasure and feels his release being dragged from his cock. He ends up with most of it in his own fist but a few drops land on Zayn’s lips and chin, pearly white in the dim light still coming from the toilet.

Harry feels weak all over, his body threatening to just collapse over Zayn. He drags in a breath instead and exhales slowly, shifting so he can slip, boneless, down until his shoulders hit the mattress. He takes a moment to himself, just to make sure he’s still breathing, before he turns his head.

There’s a smug little smirk on Zayn’s puffy lips, someone obviously feeling cocky and proud, and Harry would care more if he could feel anything in his toes. Nah, he probably wouldn’t care anyway. Zayn raises a brow, lips curling up higher, and Harry starts moving because he just- he needs-

Zayn meets him halfway, one hand cupping the back of Harry’s skull gently as their mouths come together in a now practiced ease. It’s softer than even their earlier kisses were, their lips both swollen and sensitive from the stretch, and Harry’s jaw is still a bit achy, but nothing so far has beaten the sensation of Zayn’s tongue curling into Harry’s mouth like he’s entitled to the space. Harry doesn’t fight him for control, has learned who the real hunter is in this situation, and simply settles further into the kiss.

When Zayn pulls back, Harry pouts but lets him. They yawn in unison, matching grins after, and Zayn tugs the sheets up and a soft blanket that clearly didn’t come from the hotel. He pulls them up to both of their shoulders, clearly assuming Harry is staying. Harry doesn’t fight it, just lets Zayn settle on his belly, their arms the only place they’re touching. He gets a hand free from the covers and runs it along the blanket, feeling how soft it really is from what must be years of use.

“This is nice,” he says, his voice completely wrecked.

“Thanks, my mum bought it for my first flat. I always take it with me when I leave home.” Zayn’s voice sounds equally distressed, a zing of pleasure rolling through Harry’s tired bones as he realises the unseen marks they’ve left on each other.

“Are you gone a lot? Lots of street races to get to?”

Zayn smiles but it doesn’t reach his eyes. He yawns again. “Something like that,” he agrees. His lashes brush his cheeks as he blinks in slow waves, sleep clearly seducing him under. Harry doesn’t feel very far behind, and he slips his arm back under the warm covers and shifts so his back is turned on Zayn. He feels Zayn’s fingers trace his spine softly and he sighs in pleasure and kicks out a leg as he gets in the best position and starts counting sheep.

He’s asleep before he hits twenty.

 

 

 

The morning air is chilly and Harry frowns as he wakes, nothing covering him but a thin hotel sheet. He moves quickly, pushing himself up and into a sitting position. The movement causes an instant ache to flare through his head, the blood at his temples pounding as he realises he’s alone in bed.

A quick glance around the room proves his suspicion that he’s alone completely. The half-packed suitcase that had been on the floor the night before is now gone. The odds and ends that had been on the TV stand are cleared and Zayn’s surprisingly expensive watch is missing from the nightstand.

Harry drags both of his hands up from the sheets, pushing his hair back from his face and pressing his fingers to the corners of his eyes before sweeping them in small circles to concentrate pressure against his throbbing temples.

On the nightstand where the watch had once sat is a folded piece of paper. It’s clearly the hotel stationary, a complimentary pad sat next to the teapot, and Harry eyes it with trepidation. A bottle of water stands next to it, the ring of condensation around it still minimal as if it hadn’t been sitting long. Harry grabs the two paracetamol sat next to it, putting the dry pills on his tongue and letting them sit for a second. The taste and consistency threatens to make him gag but he’s always thought the torture somehow gets the medicine into his system faster so he forces himself to count to three before he lets himself break the seal of the water bottle. He washes down the pills, drinking half of the bottle in one go to flush the taste from his tongue.

There’s only a couple of things the note could say, Harry thinks to himself as he swings his legs around until his feet his the thin, unpadded hotel room carpet. With a sigh, he picks it up and unfolds it to read.

 _I’m sorry_.

Just. Two words. I’m sorry. Period and all.

Nodding his head, Harry crumples up the scrap of paper and leaves it in a ball on the nightstand. He doesn’t know exactly what he had expected it to say- wouldn’t dream to think it would be a phone number, though that would have been the best result, second only to an indication that Zayn would be returning with some form of greasy, hangover curing breakfast- but he hadn’t expected to find something so simple. He doesn’t know why he’s surprised, Zayn was clearly under the impression that he was so mysterious when Harry feels like he’d been able to read him like a book the entire night. He had read the forced-aloofness as plain as he had read the desire in Zayn’s eyes. Harry had just… he had wanted the desire to lead to something more.

He gets to his feet, stretching his arms above his head. He’s still naked from the night before and he grabs his discarded clothes, pulling them on piece by piece until he shoves his socked feet into his Chelsea boots and heads out the hotel room door.

He pulls his mobile from his pocket as he jogs down the stairs to the ground floor and out the automatic front doors. He finds that Niall has texted him.

_Are we still doing lunch today?_

It’s nearly ten, well past the normal time Harry would be up and around. He doesn’t respond to Niall right away, pulling up Trainline on his phone and checking it for an earlier way back home. When he sees a train pulling out of Euston in an hour and a half, with just one change, he types out a quick apology and a request for a raincheck to Niall. The response is immediate and unsurprisingly easy going.

_No worries. I’ll be up near you in a couple of weeks. Take you and Izz out then._

Harry taps out  _Sounds great_  before pocketing his phone and focusing on getting back to his hotel, checking out, and switching his later train for the one that will get him home sooner. He wants to be around his family now. The rollercoaster of yesterday is settling deep in his bones and he needs to be home.

 

 

 

A pink glove lays on the ground. It’s a strange sight, as it’s the middle of October and there won’t be even a hint of a snowflake for months. There it is all the same, packed a bit in the rain-soaked mud of the front garden of Harry’s three bedroom detached house outside of Cheltenham. Harry sighs and stoops to pick it up, a muscle twinging in his back as he straightens again. He grits his teeth against it, used to the growing pains that haven’t ever stopped though he’s been grown for years.

He lets himself into his front door distractedly, his keys jangling in his hand as he tries to use the wrong one twice before realizing. Once he’s in, the outside world and all of its worries are out of his head. Coming home always has this effect.

“I’m home!” he calls out, hanging his jacket on its hook by the door and setting his shoes to dry on the rack, shifting it closer to the vent with his foot. He walks down the hall, his socks quiet against the wood floors. Before he reaches the kitchen, there’s a loud squeal and the sound of bare feet against tile before a little girl is rounding the corner, her face lit up with a smile.

“Daddy!” Izzy says, running into his arms. He lifts her in one fluid motion, ignoring any pain he feels, and gives her a hello kiss. “I thought you weren’t coming home until tomorrow.”

“Wanted to surprise you,” he says, carrying her into the kitchen. His mum stands between the worktop island and the hob, her hands on her hips as she shakes her head at him. “Wanted to surprise grandma, too.”

“You certainly have,” his mum says, coming around and giving him a hug, Izzy tucked tight between them. “You could have sent a text, I would have tidied up a bit.”

Harry laughs, eyeing the worktop where they had clearly just been baking. He doesn’t have the heart to tell her that the mess is mild compared to what he and Izzy usually get up to. “You two don’t know the meaning of ‘surprise’, then. Now, what’s on for tea?”

Izzy scrambles down to get back to her post as chef’s assistant, as Harry’s mum follows her. “We were making biscuits for pudding. Now that you’re home, we can make the jam ones you like so much.” Harry nods, avoiding the questioning gaze she gives him.

He excuses himself. “I’ll just go wash up.”

Before he heads up to his room, he retrieves his weekend bag from the front door, hiking it over his shoulder as he takes the stairs slowly, feet dragging. He sets the bag down at the foot of his bed, unzipping it and unpacking right away before he becomes too lazy to do so later. Grabbing a towel and clean pair of pants, he heads into his en suite and starts the shower. He tests the water with the inside of his wrist the same way he used to with Izzy’s bottles. The water is tepid so he turns the handle further and waits until he can see steam.

The water is scalding when he steps under the spray, his skin turning pink and then red in quick succession. He scrubs his skin raw, picking up a body wash Niall had given him for Christmas and using the citrus scent to strip away any lingering evidence of his night with Zayn.

The scrub serves a separate purpose also, the pressure he's using massages at his achy, tight muscles. He's been clenching his jaw and standing with hunched posture since leaving the meeting with his ex and their lawyers- save for the few hours he had been with Zayn, who seemed to inspire a quiet kind of satisfaction. The strokes from his sunset coloured loofah- an addition to the body wash present- work the tension out slowly but surely.

He doesn’t leave the shower until his skin is scrubbed nearly raw, as if he’s torn away the layer he had worn yesterday to make way for something fresh and untarnished. He’s satisfied, as he dries off with an oversized towel, that he’s rid of the past day and a half. It helps him a bit, but the chat he’s sure to have with his mum later will be just the thing he needs to clear his mind completely.

After that it will be tomorrow, and tomorrow is a day completely untouched by misery. A brand new day without any mistakes or mishaps. A day where Izzy’s mother didn’t refuse to have a relationship with her. A day where a fit lad with wide, Bambi-like eyes and a warm soul hadn’t decided to not stay. A day where Harry hasn’t disappointed anyone just yet.

With a sigh of frustration, Harry pushes those thoughts from his mind. He’s not going to throw himself a pity party. He’s been raising Izzy mostly alone for a long time, using his mum and sister as resources as little as possible. He’s been determined from the beginning to be present for her at all times. Izzy deserves his full attention, especially now, so he hurries to finish off in the toilet. He gives himself a couple quick, one-liner pep talks as well.

“She’ll be fine,” he says.

“She’s never known any different,” he tries.

There’s a thick layer of fog on the mirror though the overhead vent and fan are both on, an insistent buzz above his head as he drags the towel through his hair. His curls are growing long again and he uses the towel to clean off the mirror, leveling himself an unimpressed look.

In his deepest, most convincing tone he says, “You’re all she has and you better be enough for her.” Feeling unconvinced, he ties his hair back and heads back into his room. He pulls on some comfy clothes and heads down the stairs, taking them two at a time.

Reentering the kitchen, he finds his mum trying to sneak in a bit of tidying. She frowns when he stops her, taking her hands and leading her away, promising to sort it later. He helps finish the biscuits and starts the pasta, letting his mum put everything together in the nice serving dishes she likes to use as he leads Izzy into the toilet to wash her hands.

“You were gone forever, daddy,” she says, making a face at the soap on her hands. It isn’t the foaming kind she likes and he makes a mental note to pick some up the next time they do a big shop.

“Didn’t you have fun with grandma?”

Izzy shrugs. “Yeah, but- I missed you.”

Harry sighs, feeling calmer just being around his daughter. He runs his hand through her long, light brown hair, pushing it back from her face as she rinses all of the soap bubbles down the drain and drags the hand towel closer to dry.

“I’m not going anywhere, kid. You’re stuck with me,” he promises, matching her grin with one of his own through the mirror.

 

 

That night, once Izzy is fast asleep in her room, Harry settles into his favorite armchair with a cup of tea, his mum mirroring him from her place on the sofa. He knows they’re in for quite the conversation, knows he needs it to clear his head, but there’s no easy way to say any of it. He decides to just get to the point, wants to make it short and not beat around the bush. “She just doesn’t want to know her.”

Anne, for her part, doesn’t seem surprised. She nods and takes a sip of tea before speaking. “We knew that,” she says, diplomatic.

Having anticipated those words, knowing that was the only argument that could be made, Harry is prepared to counter. “We knew that six years ago when Elise was eighteen and scared. We didn’t know she would settle down with someone, have another baby and still not want anything to do with her daughter.”

“It’s her choice, H.”

“How could she not want her, though?” he asks. “How could she not choose Izzy?”

His words come out thick and his voice breaks on his daughter’s name. Anne shifts from the sofa to the arm of his chair, wrapping her arms around him but not before he catches a glimpse of his own pain reflected on her face. “Oh, my boy,” she says, pressing a kiss to his head. “She is silly, scared woman. She doesn’t know how to fit herself into her daughter’s life after having been out of it for so long. She probably thinks this is for the best.”

“Even if it means Izzy never knows her other side of the family? Even if my daughter has to suffer?”

“We’ll just have to keep loving Izzy enough to make up for it,” Anne says, determined. She pulls back, brushing a few stray strands of Harry’s hair back and pressing her palms to his cheeks. “Elise was always a troubled soul. We need to empathise with her and then move forward. Look at you, though: you’re a great daddy. You’ve done a remarkable job already.”

Harry smiles, his face still scrunched up in his mum’s hands. It makes her laugh, which sets him off, and the tension that had been weighing him down is decidedly less noticeable on his shoulders.

“I- we- couldn’t have done it without you,” he says.

Anne winks. “Oh, I know that.”

He settles back into his chair, pulling his feet up to tuck under his bum. Anne stays perched on the arm of his chair. She watches him drink deeply from his mug and waits until he’s swallowed to speak again.

“Were you with someone last night, love?”

Somehow, he manages to sputter on nothing but spit and air. “What?”

“It sounded like you were whispering, like you were hiding somewhere?”

“So you just automatically assumed I was- what you said,” he says, somehow old enough to have a daughter in primary but not yet at the age to admit to his mum that he has sex.

“Well, it was that or think you were being abducted,” she says drily.

“I was abducted.”

Anne rolls her eyes and chucks her forefinger against the bottom of his chin. She shifts from the armchair to curl back on her sofa spot, her pose mirroring Harry. “You know that I just want you to be happy, love.”

“I’m happy,” he protests, though she continues on as if she hadn’t heard.

“You don’t go out anymore, you hardly see your friends, you never bring anyone home,” she lists off, frowning. “If you’ve met someone- a young lad or a nice girl- we would want to meet them. Even if they’re not ready to meet Izzy.”

“I wouldn’t- I haven’t been seeing anyone, mum,” he says. “I can’t do that to Izzy.”

“Do what? Be happy?”

“No-”

“Are you saying that I shouldn’t have started dating Robin, because that was putting myself before you and your sister?”

“Mum, of course not-”

“Exactly,” Anne says, a triumphant smirk on her face. She’s led him around in a circle.

Harry takes a breath before speaking. “I was just meaning- I wouldn’t date anyone that I couldn’t introduce to my daughter. I wouldn’t waste their time or mine, and definitely not hers.”

“You can’t do it by yourself forever, love. Well, you can,” she corrects herself, “But it may be easier and a lot more fun if you don’t.”

“I met him at a party,” Harry says, lying just a little because he doesn’t know how to put into words how he wandered upon a street race in the middle of bloody London, half-drunk at half-ten in the evening. “We met and we danced and we- played Scrabble,” he pulls a face here, one his mum echoes with a laugh, “And then he wasn’t there in the morning and I came home early.”

“Oh, my love,” she sighs, still smiling though it’s more muted.

“It’s fine,” Harry says. “It’s not something I’m going to worry about anymore. Elise chose her path, Zayn chose his and I will choose mine. And I choose Izzy.”

They’re both silent for a moment, the proud look in his mum’s eyes one that he’s seen an awful lot of over the last half-decade. It’s still a look he strives to inspire. His mum had been his beacon since his daughter was born and before, his shining light pointing out right from wrong and nice from mean and yes from no.

“Zayn’s a nice name,” she says after a moment, bringing her mug to her lips and sipping at what must now be ice-cold tea.

His mum: his beacon but also his worst influence and biggest cheerleader. He smiles but doesn’t respond.

 

  

 

Izzy’s favorite person in the entire world- besides, possibly, Harry- is her Uncle Niall. Niall had been the second person to ever hold her and the bond they’d formed then had never faded. Hadn’t had a chance to. She finds everything about him endlessly fascinating, from his accent to his ridiculously tall tales about his friendship with her daddy.

“Honestly,” Harry sighs, rolling his eyes and covering Izzy’s ears though it makes her pout immediately and scratch at his hands- “An zacksident, I  _swear_ ”- trying to drag them away. “How did you think I’d be okay with her hearing about my first time smoking?”

Niall just grins. “She doesn’t get half of what I’m saying.”

“I think you do it on purpose just to cause me stress,” Harry accuses.

“Aw, c’mon Haz. I wouldn’t. I know, I’ll tell her about that time we got detention trying to-“

“Absolutely not.”

“Uncle Niall,” Izzy says, having successfully slipped out from between Harry’s hands, “did you know daddy when you were my age?”

“Not quite, monkey. Met your dad when we were sixteen. Tried out for a music competition.”

“Did you win?” she asks him.

“Hey,” Harry drawls. “Maybe I won.”

Izzy glances away, as if she’s suddenly losing interest. Harry bites back a sigh, knowing by now to not take it to heart. “Yeah, okay, daddy.”

Harry avoids looking at Niall, aware that his face will be doing that smug thing Harry hates, and instead tunes them out a bit while Niall goes into minute-by-minute detail about their first meeting. Harry doesn’t need to hear, again, the part where his name wasn’t called: it’s something he thinks about from time to time though the embarrassment and anxiety have eased slightly since.

Instead, he sips at his diet soda and glances around at the people passing their café. There are men dressed for the gym and women in sky-high stilettos, young people traveling in packs or doing tricks on skateboards set back on the wide sidewalks. The air is filled with the visible breath of Birmingham in the autumn, everyone in varying versions of jumpers and scarves. Izzy is outfitted out in her puffiest jacket, the rescued and cleaned pink glove on her right hand with a mismatched green one on her left. Harry’s sure she had two of the same colour when they left the house, though he had thought they were brown.

Shaking his head and deciding to let it just be, he stretches out in his seat.

“Are you going to tell me about your trip into London?” Niall asks after a moment, Izzy making a mess of her face as she tries to eat her cheese and ham toastie as quickly as possible. “You’re going to choke, love,” Niall says as he brushes her hair back from her face. “Smaller bites. She scrunches her nose at that but listens, nibbling just the edge like a rabbit. Niall grins and looks back to Harry. “So?”

“So, what?” Harry says.

“Was it a bloke or a bird?”

“Jesus, Niall. It was no one.”

“A bloke  _and_  a bird?” he teases.

Harry rolls his eyes, kicking out at his chair a bit. “It was nothing, c’mon, not in front of Izzy.”

“I’m not listening anyway,” she says decidedly. “I’ve made up my mind, I’m going to be an actress.”

“You are not,” Harry says in a lazy tone. “You’re going to be a little girl and one day, you’re going to be a bigger girl and then, one day further, you’re going to be grown and out of my house.”

“My house,” she says, before falling silent again and munching on her still small bites.

“It’s nothing, Niall,” Harry insists when he sees his friend watching him. “It was a bloke,” he allows, knowing his best mate’s curiosity will never fade away. “And he was gone the next morning and it was nothing.”

“Scared him away?” Niall teases, drinking deeply from his pint. “Did you profess your love too soon?”

“No, you arsehole,” he says, whispering the last word as if it will keep Izzy from hearing it. It doesn’t but she just rolls her eyes and hums a song under her breath, expression intense as if she’s planning her double threat career as an actor-slash-singer.

A loud sound like the revving of an engine catches Harry’s attention and he turns in his seat to look over his shoulder, watching as two motorcycles fly around the corner and into an alley between the café and the Thai restaurant next door. The riders park and swing their legs over the seats almost in unison. Harry can hear them laughing and talking over the distance, though he can’t pick out the words. He’s unabashedly staring, he knows, when the riders make to take off their helmets.

“Earth to Harry Styles.”

Confused at being pulled from his focus, Harry looks around to find Niall and Izzy both staring at him. “Erm, right. Sorry. What’d I miss?” He glances back over his shoulder and is mildly disappointed to see the two riders have disappeared.

“You a fan of motorcycles all of a sudden?” Niall asks with a grin.

“Oh, absolutely,” Harry says drily. “I can tell you anything you want to know about them.”

“What’s that one like?” Izzy asks, pointing to the one in front. Clearly, she’s either not recognising sarcasm or she’s just calling his bluff.

“That’s a very special kind of bike,” Harry responds. “It’s a yellow one.”

“Daddy,” she whines, though Niall bursts out laughing. “That’s silly.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, miss. Shall I go ask more about it?”

Izzy calls his bluff again. “Yes, please.”

“Oh.”

Harry fiddles with the edge of his napkin for a moment, pursing his lips and glancing over his shoulder at the still unattended bikes. Deciding to give it a shot- what’s the worst that could happen?- he nods and pushes his chair back to stand. He rounds the short bannister separating the café patio from the sidewalk, pulling a face for Izzy as he walks past them again.

Unsure what his next move should be, he slowly approaches the bikes. He takes in both of them, completely oblivious to the differences apart from the colour- one yellow and one red. He’s reminded of Zayn, of course, a brief flash of the image of his thighs straddling his scarlet bike as he’d lifted his fist in the air after winning his race. Those same thighs that had bracketed Harry’s head, his teeth marking them up in a way that wouldn’t fade right away.

Sure, the marks were probably gone by this point. They had faded, if not the very next day then the one after for sure. But they had been there, Harry had put them there, and Zayn would have had to remember him until they were gone.

Almost as if he has summoned him into existence, Harry looks up and sees Zayn coming out of the restaurant next to the alley. He’s with another lad, both of them about the same height, but the other boy has soft brunette fringe falling in his eyes. The new lad is attractive enough but, in the light of day with nothing like alcohol clouding his senses, Zayn is an actual walking piece of art.

His hair is soft with a hint of curl at the ends. It’s no longer a dark brown like it had been the night they shared. Instead, the locks are dyed a shocking gray like the colour of Birmingham’s cloudy sky. He’s wearing a leather jacket and tight, black denim trousers with a tighter black t-shirt. He walks with a cocky stride, smirking around a cigarette as the other lad says something with a loud, enthusiastic laugh after. Zayn’s lips are still just as thin and bloodless as they had been two weeks ago when they’d been wrapped around Harry’s cock, but he can’t focus too much on that right now because Zayn chooses that moment to look up.

The barely noticeable way he makes a misstep, the pause in his otherwise fluid walk, makes Harry’s heart skip a beat. His eyes get wide- wider than ever before- and he coughs, small and discreet, around his smoke.

The hesitation is over in a split second, a slow blink of Harry’s eyes, and Zayn is holding himself stiff and aloof, avoiding looking in Harry’s direction as he and his friend approach.

The new lad doesn’t seem to notice him just yet, walking sideways and bouncing a bit as he talks with an excited air about him. While they’re both a bit shorter and leaner compared to Harry, Zayn is all angels and his friend is all curves. Where Zayn’s cheekbones are sharp enough to cut Harry’s lips on a kiss, his chest built and his hips narrow, the blue-eyed boy is round and soft. They’re a striking pair, and Harry tastes jealousy rise in his throat as he considers the fact that these two may not be just mates.

Zayn’s hair makes him look almost like a completely different person but Harry thinks he would know him anywhere.

Finally, when they’re almost upon him, the chatty lad notices Harry hovering awkwardly near their bikes. He turns his sight on him, blue eyes narrowing and jaw set in a line.

“Can we help you?” he asks.

“Nah, just admiring your bikes,” Harry says, shrugging and stuffing his hands into the pockets of his skinnies. “Used to ride.”

“Sounds likely,” Zayn says, a look of surprise crossing his face as if he hadn’t expected to actually speak. Harry hadn’t expected it either.

“I did.”

“C’mon, Louis. We need to go,” Zayn says.

“Why’d you quit?” his friend asks Harry, one hand going to his hip.

“Quit what?” Harry asks, having lost the train of the conversation after hearing Zayn speak. His voice is softer and his accent thicker than Harry remembers, the combination like honey or caramel or some other over-used cliché. Harry feels a flush on his cheeks as he realises he’s staring at him. Louis’ mouth ticks up at the corners in a smirk when Harry shakes his head and focuses back on him.

“You said you ‘used to ride,’” Louis says, actually making the air quotes with his fingers. “What changed that?”

“Ah,” Harry says, rocking on his heels. He nods his head towards the café. “Had a little girl. Had to give up the bike.”

“How old’s your daughter?”

“Almost six. Challenged me to come find an interesting fact about your bikes.”

“Cute. Couldn’t you just give her a fact about yours?”

“Ah,” Harry repeats, one hand coming up to thumb at his chin. “I wasn’t, ah, very good? Like, it broke down a bit and I was always nervous on the turns. And I never learned much about it to be honest. Thought it just looked cool.”

Louis laughs at that, posture finally relaxing. “You can tell her my top speed on this baby is over 300 kilometers.”

“You can if you want to lie to her,” Zayn says, biting his lip when Harry swings his attention back to him.

“What’s yours?” Harry asks, smiling in what he hopes is an encouraging manner. He doesn’t want to scare the lad off but he also thinks that, if he had just a minute to speak with him, he could figure out why Zayn had left.

“Too fast for you, Harry,” Zayn shoots back, hiking a leg over his bike in one smooth motion, his carryout bag tucked safe in the snug top-box behind his seat. He starts his bike, revving it once for nothing more than dramatic effect, Harry’s sure. He fits his helmet over his head. “C’mon, Louis,” he shouts before pulling away.

Louis gets on his own bike, leveling Harry a calculated look as he fiddles with his own helmet. “That was weird,” he says.

Harry shrugs, feeling awkward under Louis’ intense gaze. “Is Zayn, ah- always like that?”

“Sometimes,” Louis allows. His teeth look sharp behind his lips as he smiles suddenly. “We’ve got an exhibition tonight, at the NEC near the airport. You should come, bring your daughter.”

“I don’t know,” Harry starts but Louis talks over him.

“It’s family friendly and I think he’d like to see you there.”

“What makes you say that?” Harry asks, his awkwardness mixing with a wave of nerves.

“I never told you his name, for one. You never told us yours, for two.” Harry is pretty sure his mouth is gaping like a fish. Louis just laughs. “I’m sure I’ll hear the whole story at some point but just stop by, for now.”

Harry watches him take off at that, standing still for a long moment until little hands are wrapping around his waist. “Daddy, what are you doing?” Izzy asks from near his waist, looking up at him with a pout. “You were gone forever.”

“We settled the bill, mate,” Niall says, coming up beside him. “You looked a little lost over here.”

“That was him,” Harry says.

“Him who?” Niall asks, swinging Izzy up into his arms and letting her settle on his hip though she really is far too old to be held like that. They all indulge her, though, and Harry smiles at his daughter until she answers with one of her own.

“The bloke from two weeks ago,” Harry answers Niall a beat too late. “That was Zayn.”

Niall whistles, long and low. “How’d that go?”

“He ran away again,” Harry says. “But we’re going to see him later.”

“We?” Niall asks.

“Wanna go see some motorcycles, Izz?” Harry asks, grinning when she bounces in Niall’s hold and nods her head repeatedly.

“C’mon then.”

 

 

 

Harry’s been to the NEC several times throughout his life. Whether on school trips or just for an exciting showing, he’s probably visited once a year. He’s never been for the motorcycle show, however, and he feels his eyes grow wide as he takes it all in.

Izzy clings tightly to his and Niall’s hands, her eyes like globes as she turns her head frantically, trying desperately to see everything all at once. There are bikes of every colour and size on display around the room, models in tight outfits near the biggest displays, showing off the features of the makes and models. Izzy watches them. “I want to do this instead,” she decides.

Harry rolls his eyes. In the hour and a half since they finished eating, Izzy has changed her mind five times about what she wants to do when she’s older. He’s told her that there’s no need to rush it, she has plenty of time, but she just scoffs and dismisses him.

“You can be a car show model if you like,” Niall says, “or a veterinarian or a teacher or a firefighter or a vendor at a fruit market. “But your job right now is to help you dad get it in.”

“Can you NOT,” Harry says, his voice creaking up at the end as he reaches to cover his daughter's ears. “Honestly, you're missing some kind of brain-to-mouth filter.”

“Did I lie, though?” Niall asks with a smirk.

Harry ignores him but doesn't even try to hide the fact that he's scanning the crowd for any sign of Zayn or Louis. He doesn't see either of them but he doesn't stop looking as they make their way around. They stop at a lot of the bikes, Niall lamenting the fact that his mum would kill him if he ever got one, but Harry and Izzy are both openly salivating. She thinks they’re cool, loves the sounds they make in the demo videos, and her overwhelming excitement convinces one of the floor models to let her climb onto a prototype.

“Daddy, look!” she says, shouting to be heard over the din of the other couple thousand people trailing through their end of the show floor. “Look at me!”

“I see you, baby,” Harry assures her, watching as she pretends to rev the engine and shifts on the seat, Niall’s hand carefully placed on her back to steady her. “You look really tough,” Harry says.

“Daddy, I’m just a little girl. That’s silly.”

“Little girls can be tough,” Harry says, offense evident in his tone.

From the corner of his eye he registers movement, turning at the last second to see Louis slipping up next to him. “I’ve got five younger sisters,” he says, light voice carrying over the bustle somehow easily, “and they’re all quite tough. Your dad’s right about this one.”

Izzy pulls a face but then looks over. “Jesus, Mary and Joseph,” she says, eyes wide and mouth opening in shock. “You’re one of the boys from dinner! Your bike is yellow!”

“Awfully smart, you are,” Louis says, crouching down to be on her level when she scrambles off of the bike and runs up to be closer.

“Awfully smart mouth, more like,” Harry says. “Babe, we’ve talked about saying things like that.”

“Uncle Niall says them, though!” she pouts, momentarily distracted from her excitement.

“Uncle Niall is a grownup and daddy can’t put him in timeout. Izzy and Uncle Niall: two different people.”

“What are you called?” she says to Louis next, clearly dismissing Harry’s parenting attempt. He would normally stress his point but he’s a pushover for his daughter, at the end of the day, and he’s still feeling guilty for her mother’s decision two weeks before. He hasn’t worked up the nerve to tell her, yet, and is constantly dreading the day she starts asking pointed questions.

“My name is Louis, love, what’s yours?”

“Izzy.”

“I like that name a lot. One of my sister is Félicité, but we all call her Fizzy.”

“My name is just Izzy,” she says proudly. “Says so on my birth ferticate.” She pauses and scrunches her brow. “Certificate,” she corrects herself.

Louis nods and briefly glances over at Harry with a smile. “Do you like motorcycles, Izzy?”

It is a bit surprising, but Louis seems to be completely natural with Izzy. He doesn’t talk down to her the way so many adults are prone to do, but he instead treats her like an equal. He doesn’t put on an air or act different in any way. It makes something in Harry spark, like recognizing a kindred spirit.

Having made the decision to raise Izzy alone at such a young age himself, Harry’s seen friends come and go who couldn’t handle their mate’s daughter being in his life. Louis seems like he would be the opposite, would understand when Harry cancels again and again to stay home with his daughter and eat beans on toast for dinner whilst watching cartoons. So far, Niall’s really the main one that has stuck around, evening joining them on occasion for their little dinner dates.

And, maybe, if Harry can strike up a friendship with Louis, he can get that much closer to Zayn. It’s a bit dishonest but Harry knows what he felt when he watched Zayn smile and he wants to feel that again and again.

Harry realises he’s tuned them out a little when he registers that they’re both watching him expectantly. “Er, sorry. What?”

“Let’s go see the race, daddy,” Izzy says, patiently repeating herself. She’s used to his spacey ways and he grins at her.

“’Course we can. Are you racing today?” Harry asks Louis.

“Not just yet. Tomorrow for me. Zayn’s up in the first one, or else he’d be out here with me. I told him you might be stopping by.”

“Oh, I don’t know how he liked that.”

“He styled his hair even though it will all be smushed under his helmet, if that tells you anything.”

Harry feels himself flush, Niall giggling behind them, and the four of them turn and head through one side of the main floor to get to the double doors that divide the showroom from the exhibition room. When they get inside, the noise is completely different; thousands more are crowded in the stands, watching as the bikers take test laps around a carefully designed course full of hills, valleys and water jumps.

Harry and Izzy both make the same impressed sound in unison, Louis and Niall sharing a laugh and a lingering glance at their expense. There are about twenty bikes in all, though Louis quickly explains that they go in heats of four each until the top five go for the overall win when Harry points out how narrow the track seems, overall.

Zayn’s easy enough to pick out. There are three of four red bikes but none with his bright, scarlet shade. And, to Harry’s somehow well-trained eye, none of the riders have Zayn’s build. His thighs are just as perfect as Harry remembers, his chest just as solid. He’s not completely dressed in his uniform just yet, only a t-shirt clinging to the stacked muscles of his torso, and Harry finds himself tuning his group out for just a moment as he begs- prays, really, to whoever is up there listening- that Zayn turns out to be both single and interested.

“He is.”

“Hmm?” Harry says, tearing his eyes away from Zayn to look over at Louis. Niall and Izzy have wandered away a little, perhaps going for snacks at the booth before finding seats.

“You were kind of- I don’t know, praying?” Louis says, voice ticked up at the end like a question. “You were mumbling out loud at any rate. And Zayn is. Both single and interested.”

“How would you know?”

“Besides me being the only non-family member he’s close with? He’s been talking about a fit Harry he met a few weeks back. Says you guys got off together in his hotel room.”

“Did he say why he left?”

Louis shrugs. “I didn’t get this close to him by betraying secrets. He’s a moron, though, I’ll give you that. And I think he regrets it.”

“I wish he hadn’t gone.”

“Talk to him after his first race. He’ll be high on winning and too nervous about the final heat to overthink your interaction. Might be good for him.”

“You talk as if he’s for sure going to win.” Louis levels him a look and Harry just nods. He sees his opportunity and seizes it, taking the access card Louis hands him.

“It’s not a magical pass to Narnia or anything, but it will get you back to the locker area to speak with him.”

“Thank you,” Harry says, making to walk away.

“Real quick, Haz- is it okay if I call you Haz?” Harry shrugs. “Great, so, is your friend Niall… seeing anyone or willing to see someone of the gay persuasion?”

Harry laughs. “Niall’s pretty open about things like that. I’d say it’s worth a shot.”

“And me hitting on him in front of your daughter is a hard no or…?”

Harry rolls his eyes. “Don’t teach her any new phrases. Other than that, Niall’s mouth has already corrupted her a bit.”

Louis darts away at that, tearing through the crowd of people until he meets Niall and Izzy where they’re just about to place their snack food order. Harry turns on his heels, trying to look like he’s meant to be there when he slips past the barricade separating the course and the back area. Tents are setup as if they’re in the middle of a field, riders and assistants running around. The sound of the engines is duller back here until Harry gets too curious to wait for the results of the first wave to appear on the ticker screen above the medical tent. He peeks his head out, watching as the majority of the riders leave the track. Four remain, just as Louis had said, with Zayn right in the middle of the other three.

The race is quick, just three times around the admittedly small track. The heats are designed to produce semi-finalists, who will circle the course more and have access to new jumps when several blockades are moved. Harry doesn’t take his eyes off of Zayn, who is now wearing a standard racing jacket. There’s a lion emblazoned on the back, mid roar, surrealistic in blues, purples and greens. It gives it a lifelike appearance, somehow, when the muscles in Zayn’s back bunch and relax as he takes turns, lifts his front wheel to clear jumps, and lays himself flat over the bar to get the most out of the bike.

He wins soundly, as if Harry had ever harbored any doubt, and heads into the backstage area almost right away. He dismounts from his bike, tearing off his helmet and hollering for a medic. Harry doesn’t see any obvious injury but he still rushes forward, avoiding the other three riders that are pulling in as the next round take their places in their lanes.

“Medic! My fucking wrist.”

“You okay?” Harry asks.

His voice or his nearness, both probably unexpected, seem to startle Zayn. Harry sees his shoulders raise and his hands separate from where one had been holding the opposite wrist. Zayn turns on his heel, eyes narrowing when he sees Harry.

“What are you doing back here?”

“Louis told me-”

“Fucking meddler,” Zayn says, his left hand lifting to cradle his right wrist again.

“He just thought he was helping,” Harry excuses, though he has no idea the depth of their relationship.

Zayn doesn’t look too upset, just a bit annoyed. Part of it could even be due to the pain he’s feeling. Harry watches as a medic approaches with a first aid kit, immediately pulling out a roll of ACE bandage at her first glance.

“It’s probably just a bit sore from some tension but it could be a sprain. We can send you for and X-ray.”

“Then I can’t race.”

“Not without a doctor’s clearance. It’s a liability.”

Zayn spits out a sting of curses so dark they’d make Niall blush. The medic bites her lip and looks anxious.

“Oh, bloody fuck- I.” Zayn takes a breath and swallows. “I shouldn’t have spoken like that. I’m sorry. I’ll- Thank you, for everything.”

She seems appeased by the apology but still gives him a wide berth when she closes up her supply kit and heads off. Zayn frowns down at his bandaged wrist as if he’s contemplating amputation. Harry shifts his weight from one foot to the other, feeling anxious. His movement seems to get Zayn’s attention.

“I’m sorry, Harry. I didn’t mean to speak like that. It’s not entirely a habit but- this race is important, small as it is.”

“It’s okay.”

“I didn’t even know if your daughter was with you or not. I’m a fool, admitted.”

“She’s with Niall and Louis, actually. They’re probably saying worse.” Zayn gives him a look. “Okay,” Harry backtracks, “maybe not worse but. Niall’s got a bit of a foul mouth.”

Zayn grins at that for a brief moment, just a flash of his teeth that disappears too quickly.

“Why is this race so important?” Harry asks.

“It’s one of the first steps to getting invited to the Isle of Man race.” Harry pulls a face, not sure what Zayn is referring to. “It’s one of the largest legal street races in the world.”

“Oh,” Harry says, nodding. “So- you don’t just do illegal street racing?” He doesn’t know how to word the question in the least offensive way but Zayn doesn’t seem to mind.

“I just street race like that night we met for fun. It’s not frequent. Just need to get it out of my system every once in a while.”

“Is there one you prefer?” Harry asks, following Zayn as he walks his bike back to his tent setup where an older man- who looks too much like Zayn to not be his father- immediately begins inspecting it.

“Street racing pays more,” Zayn says simply.

“Until you get sponsored and make legitimate cash,” the older man says. He glances over at Harry. “My son is too focused on the present, as usual. Never thinks about the plan ahead.”

“Dad, I’m not too focused. I can do both.”

“And you hurt your wrist, probably from trying too many tricks lately. Style isn’t everything, beta. You need to be healthy at the end of the day, too.”

Zayn rolls his eyes but doesn’t argue, his mouth even ticking up at the corners. “Harry, this is my father, Yaser.”

“It’s nice to meet you. Should I tell your mother you’re bringing home a boy?”

Harry laughs at the teasing smirk on Yaser’s face as Zayn flushes dark and scowls.

“Let’s talk about how I’m going to ride this next race with a broken wrist, instead,” Zayn suggests.

“Is it really broken?” Yaser asks at the same time Harry say, “I can clear you to ride, if you’re not too injured.”

They turn to look at him in unison, two identical looks of confused interest on their faces.

“I’m a doctor, actually. I’m not- I can’t fix you if you need anything major on your wrist, but I can tell if it’s too serious to compete or not.”

“Really?” Zayn asks. “You’re a doctor?”

“Don’t sound so surprised,” Harry pouts.

“You don’t know what your young lad does for a living, beta?” Yaser asks.

“He’s not my ‘young lad’, baba. We’re just- we’re friends.”

Yaser raises one brow but just shrugs, turning his attention back to the bike fully. Zayn grabs Harry’s upper arm, hauling him away. “I’m sorry- about me and about him- he’s just nosy.”

“It’s okay. Most people don’t see long hair and think ‘pediatrician, of course’. Let me take a look at it.”

Harry swallows hard, once, when Zayn holds out his arm eagerly. He keeps his touches light as he pulls the bandage off, watching Zayn’s face for any sign of discomfort but there’s just the light of anxious hope. They both inhale when the wrap falls away, Harry keeping it in a roll that he hands to Zayn before grabbing his injured wrist again. He runs his thumbs across the bones quickly but gently, not feeling any out of place. He then begins pressing in small, barely-there waves. Zayn grimaces at one point but otherwise stays stoic, though his wrist is an even darker red than before.

Though Harry would love nothing more than to keep touching Zayn in some way, he lets go far sooner than he’d like. Zayn watches his face closely, eyes wide in obvious desire for a healthy prognosis.

“I would feel better if you got it examined and X-rayed,” he starts, expecting it when Zayn’s face falls. “But,” he continues, “you should be fine to race if you keep your wrap on it, or even half of it, just to keep the wrist straight. I’ll sign a release with the racing company.”

Zayn actually hollers in triumph, pulling Harry into a tight hug, though he only uses his uninjured arm, much to Harry’s proud relief. “Thank you, so much!”

“You’re welcome but I mean it: get it looked at properly after today, okay?” Harry says as he pulls back just enough to look at Zayn. Their faces a mere inches apart and Zayn’s warm body is still wrapped around Harry’s torso. Zayn’s eyes don’t stray from Harry’s lips for a long moment- long enough that Harry begins counting seconds in his head. “Why did you leave?” he asks, not knowing if he wants to hear the answer or not.

“Harry, don’t-“

“Don’t what? I thought we had a good time. You don’t owe me anything, obviously, but it would have been nice to at least have known why.”

“It- it was a good time,” Zayn says, eyes growing wide as he implores Harry to believe him even as he steps back and lets his hand fall to his side. “But you’re on the rebound and you have a kid- both dangerous on their own but impossible for me to deal with combined. I didn’t want to make it awkward.”

“I’m not on the rebound,” Harry protests. “Zayn, I- why do you think that?”

“You  _said_ , you told me you were in London to meet with your daughter’s mum and then you said, you called her your ex.”

“I- okay, yes,” Harry says. “She is my ex and I was in London to meet with her but that’s only because I received papers in the mail stating she wanted to terminate her parental rights. We dated for a brief time right around when Izzy was conceived and broke up after finding out Elise and I were pregnant. I haven’t seen Elise since she stopped by on Izzy’s first birthday with a present for her and letter to me explaining that she ‘needed some time’ before being a mother again.”

“Oh.”

They’re silent for what feels like a long moment before Harry tries again.

“I think we have a problem with assuming things about one another without actually asking any questions or looking for any clarification.”

“I think so, yes, also. Mostly me.”

Harry sighs. “It’s me, too. I would offer to take you to dinner and try to start again but-“

“No, I like that idea,” Zayn says, stepping back into Harry’s space and squeezing his arm gently. “I- dinner is great, no ‘but’ needed here.”

“I have a daughter. I just need you to know: she will always be my number one.”

“I’m great with kids- I’ve got two little sisters, a baby nephew and a dozen cousins. We can even do something with her, very casual, and just… see where things go?” Zayn offers.

Harry feels himself growing red, feeling a nervous kind of giddy thinking about taking Zayn and Izzy out together. He’s about to say something when a starting horn sounds, splitting through the air and bringing Harry’s focus out of the moment.

“That’s probably the third or fourth heat by now,” Zayn says. “I- are you really going to clear me to race?”

Harry nods. “I don’t feel anything out of sorts and, to be honest, you are enough of an adult to know whether or not you can race. If you let me wrap it up tight enough, you probably won’t risk further injury but it may limit your motions.”

Zayn holds out his wrist almost before Harry’s done speaking, and he grins as he wraps it in the bandage. He walks Zayn back to his tent with his father, who is grinning at them as they approach. Yaser offers Harry a drink but he declines, leaving Zayn with a small smile and stopping by the medic tent to sign Zayn’s release before heading back into the main arena and finding his group. Izzy is on Niall’s lap, half-dozing from her exciting day so far, and Niall and Louis are speaking in what appear to be quiet tones as Harry approaches.

Harry doesn’t miss seeing where their pinkies are just barely brushing on the bleacher seat between them, and he makes sure to cough and settle himself in the vacant space, separating them with a grin.

“Nice, Styles,” Niall says, pretending to be upset by it. Louis doesn’t seem to mind either, just accepts his backstage pass when Harry passes it back.

“How’d it go?”

“Yeah, you pop the question yet?” Niall asks.

Louis’ sharp teeth are on display as he laughs, one hand pushing his fringe back. “Zayn’s inspired more commitment in less time,” he says. “Lots of people fall for his pretty face.”

“Well, I didn’t pop the question or fall for anything,” Harry protests. “We’re going to watch his race and then we’re going to go to dinner. All of us,” Harry adds when he sees Niall and Louis exchange knowing smirks. “Honestly, have you two met before? You’re already ganging up on me.”

“We just know where this is going,” Niall says, letting Izzy shift into Harry’s lap when she makes grabby hands for her daddy.

“Well, let Zayn and I decide how we get there, then,” Harry says, pressing a kiss to Izzy’s hair as she curls against his chest, one of her hands coming up to grab his cross pendant. She’s been sleeping on his chest and holding his necklaces in her left hand since she was born, a soothing position she defaults into. It makes his heart feel two times too big every time it happens, if he’s honest.

The fifth heat finishes within a few moments, and then crew rush onto the course to move and adjust markers and jumps where possible. They take down the partitions separating the rest of the track, the amount of hills and jumps now on the course nearly double what it had just been.

By the time the race is about to start, they’ve been sitting in the stands and talking for about a half hour. Izzy is almost all the way awake, a permanently grumpy look on her face as she struggles to come back up completely. When she sees the bikes forming in a line, however, she starts smiling and sits up straighter to see.

“Which one should we root for?” Harry asks.

“My friend is in the red one,” Louis tells Izzy, pointing out Zayn in the exact middle start position. “He’s your daddy’s friend, too.”

“I can root for him if you want, daddy?” Izzy says, looking back at Harry.

“I think we should root for our friends, yes,” Harry says. “We’ll root for him extra special hard tonight, because his wrist is a little sore.”

“Okay,” Izzy says, still sleepy to an extent and compliant. She jumps around and bounces when the bikes start revving their engines as they wait for the go ahead to start, all but Zayn trying to use the intimidation tactic.

Zayn stays completely still compared to the other riders; he doesn’t look around or say anything or act, in any way, like he’s nervous for the race. He just stays stoic until the second before the race is beginning. When the horn is raised in the air, Zayn takes his position leaning over the bars. He takes off as soon as the sound of the horn hits the air, pulling into the lead early. He maintains it the entire way, just about, from the jumps and turns and the two stupidly cocky flip tricks he pulls as he races around a particularly steep pile of leftover rubbish.

Izzy and Harry root for him extra special hard the entire way.

Zayn wins. Of course, with all the cocky attitude he had been missing in the beginning.

“We did it, Izzy,” Harry says, hugging her when Zayn pulls across the finish line a full sixteen seconds before the next closest. He’s got his injured wrist in the air, pumping it and waving his arm back-and-forth in victory.

“I think I did it, mainly,” she says, all sass wrapped up in a cute package of little girl.

“Maybe you did,” Harry allows. “Do you want to go meet the rider? He’s one of our new friends.”

“I have a lot of friends already,” Izzy says, “but none of them rides a motorcycle.”

“Well, you need one then,” Louis says. “Do you need two? I ride a motorcycle also.”

“I don’t  _need_  two,” she stipulates, turning to look up at Louis. “But I could have two. I have two friends who have blonde hair and that’s okay, I guess.”

Louis looks to Harry but he just shrugs. “I don’t know- I blame Niall for most of the interesting things she says.”

They file out of the stands slowly, making their way backstage to congratulate Zayn.

Izzy, true to fashion, holds out a hand for Zayn to shake. “Daddy says you’re going to be our friend because you ride a motorcycle.”

Zayn laughs, shaking her hand back and dropping to one knee so she doesn’t have to crane her neck so high. “I do ride a motorcycle. Does that mean you’re okay with me being your new friend?”

“Can I ride it?” she asks.

“Not today,” Harry and Zayn say in unison, sharing a grin while Izzy huffs a breath and walks back to Harry, holding onto his trouser leg.

“Daddy, please.”

“Maybe one day, but not right now, babe. We have to let Zayn get ready for dinner. You want him to come with us, yeah?” She nods. “Go ask him, then. And if he can’t come out tonight, don’t get upset, remember?” She nods again. “Just say ‘okay’ or even ‘thank you’ and then come back here, love.”

Zayn listens to her slightly rambly invitation, grinning and accepting easily.

“I just need to clean up at home a bit and then Louis and I can meet you somewhere,” Zayn says, addressing the group at large.

“Sounds good,” Niall says. “Us and this little lady here and going to finish looking around before this closes up for the day. We can meet at that Italian place around the corner?”

“An hour?” Zayn says, standing again.

They all agree and part ways, Izzy waving to Louis and Zayn with a large smile as they walk away.

“How did your random shag get me a number?” Niall asks in an undertone when they’re back in the showroom, the race’s audience milling around. “How do you get some and then I do, too?”

Harry rolls his eyes. “The Lord giveth with both hands, apparently,” he teases.

“No joke,” Niall says.

“Daddy, I think I can ride this one,” Izzy says, tugging them towards a kid-sized motorcycle. Harry groans. He is not prepared to be steadfast in the wake of his daughter wanting a motorcycle anytime soon.

“Why don’t we ask Santa for it for Christmas?” Harry suggests, not even feeling guilty about pawning the responsibility off like that. He’s counting on her forgetting that she’s even asked for it by the time Christmas comes around.

Izzy pouts but doesn’t argue.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


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